Petals on a Breeze
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: A look at the Sakura blossoms after the world is saved from the eyes of a man who had little interest in such an aftermath.


_**Author's Notes**_

**Imp:** this relates back to one of my Tokyo Babylon stories (which consequently hasn't been written yet), Painted Blossoms. It's the sequel to A Sleep Without Dreams (which is in the process of being written). Reason I'm writing this first is because it's shorter and X-1999 is more recent in my mind, but the only part that really relates is some of the imagery on blood. You'll know which part isn't canon. This is rather metaphorical though, expanding on that last scene with Subaru in it in the anime. Basically a few seconds of material.

This is my first X-1999 (actually, first CLAMP) fic. Feedback would be nice. Yadda yadda yadda...

**Random fact:** did you guys know the guy who voices Fuma in the English dub (is he voiced by the same person in Tsubasa?) also voices Koichi Kimura in Digimon Frontier's English Dub? And apparently the person who voices Yuuko in xxxHolic and Tsubasa is the same person who voices Riza Hawkeye in Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood (not the 2003 anime). Considering the personality differences…shows how bad I am with recognising voices. :) But interesting material.

…

_**Petals on a Breeze**_

The sunlight washed out the white blossoms of the Sakura tree, making them glimmer with a transparency that took them away from the world they existed within. The pink stains were stronger, more persistent. The yellow haze had those light trails sketching the periphery of his vision.

Or perhaps "sketching" was a somewhat mild term in juxtaposition. The thin straggled web swallowed up his sight, small channels of blood staining the pure canvas of white. The blossoms danced slightly upon the breeze; as Subaru watched, one drifted away into the shadows cast by the stern, unyielding branches.

He knew how unyielding they were, perhaps better than any other alive. Those thornless chains had ensnared him since age nine – perhaps beyond that if he allowed himself to believe such an event had been orchestrated by fate. It probably had been; if it hadn't been for those prior years: that initial meeting when he was nine, and then his sixteenth year spent with the man who had stolen his heart and his twin, things probably never would have ended up as they had.

There were a lot of regrets laced with that thought.

And now those same smooth boughs leaned ever-so-slightly towards his touch, as if sensing the affinity. It was understandable; as the new Sakurazukamori, his ability to create barriers of protection had been traded for prowess over the namesake plant. The petals rustled in the wind, as if questioning his ability, his resolve…but it hadn't been an intentional passing of power in his part. It was simply that wish falling in tattered blossoms as the wind plucked them from their stool.

Hokuto's wish for him to continue living prevailed. The sturdy branches prevailed, letting go the white pure blossoms – the pink ones clung stubbornly, he noticed. They always stung; the stains of blood persisted, no matter how many times the soup scrubbed it insistently away in a panic, or how often warm water tended the wounds…or those of wilder temperaments. It didn't matter how much mud and debris or even cloud covered the image, because the pink always prevailed.

The white innocence was quickly swept up by the slow gust of a reviving Tokyo. A Tokyo with only a few people less than when the war had started. A Tokyo most people wouldn't even note the transition of. Things happened every day. It wasn't uncommon for structures to collapse, despite how far their technology had come. Earthquakes, wraths of nature…the destruction of the world was always around some corner, but Tokyo was simply one of those places that could walk forward nonetheless.

Seishiro had told him that years ago. It took till that moment for him to really understand.

For a moment, he wondered who was left. His grandmother clung to her last breaths of life…of a sort. She was old, and wearied. The outside world meant as little to her as it did to him. Kamui, who had become a brother to him, was now dead in fulfilling his final wish. Others were dead: Sorata, Saiki, Hinoto, Kakyo…and the ones more precious to him. Those left had spread out and come together, picking up new threads of old lives and walking off. But for him, the Sakura petals still dusted him with fine white powder laced with read. The branches still eased around his wrists.

He couldn't change his wish. Nor could he ever accomplish it.

The white blossoms existed only to turn pink, to become hardened by the world, or to float away where they became trampled and torn. They could never remain.

He closed his eyes, letting the sweet scent envelop him, before setting off. Sumeragi or Sakurazuka; in the end, it didn't really matter. Both were masters of the yin-yang. He no longer had a wish of any sort, let that be a vindictive or self-destructive one or one that caused a new blossom in his heart. He had his work though – almost distantly, he wondered if he would ever get a client after the Sakurazukamori, and if he did, whether he would be able to do such a job. Perhaps, perhaps not; the idea didn't disturb him as much as it once had. There had never been such a cause in the past, but the future…who knew, really. Kakyo had been wrong. Hinoto had been wrong. The earth lived on, through it all.

The sun still shone, washing out innocence by the day and painting the white blossoms pink. One dislodged with the gentle caress of wind, balancing upon his nose a moment before drifting west as the breeze carried it to a new destination.

After a moment, he went west himself. The breeze blew new petals after him, little blossom fragments attempting to latch onto his coat.

Perhaps he wound find one had ensnared the material…or better yet, passed through it to the heart underneath. In the meantime, the birds would call, singing songs of all kinds and tolerance.

That, he had at least. Something to return to. The soil in which to plant new seeds that would perhaps sprout. It was either that, or, he mused, watching the frozen sphere till death finally decided to keep his soul.


End file.
